Gone, Baby, Gone
by MinP1072
Summary: Out of time and on the run, but Liz isn't just running from their enemies — she's running from her past, and from herself. Will she be lost for good, or can Red help her find her way? A/N: Eventual Lizzington - we're T for now, but it'll change to M eventually, too, you know, probably...
1. Chapter 1

Her head on his shoulder anchors him, but it also distracts.

Here, at the culmination of months, years of work, a good and concrete step taken against the Cabal, he should be happy, or at least relieved, fired up to keep moving. Instead, he's plunged into his worst-case scenario, on the run, her life in shambles behind them. He still has plans — he's Raymond Reddington, he's got backup plans, backups for his backups, all the way to infinity. But he needs to stay on top of things, in charge, alert and responsive.

Instead, with her nestled beside him, sleeping with her head on his shoulder, weighed down by his failures, he can't focus, can't think straight. He just sits, breathes her in, to calm himself.

But she's been through it, and then some, in the last couple of days. She's not herself, not fragrant with the scent he knows almost better than his own. Instead, she gives off the stale smells of sweat and fear, of gunpowder and smoke; there's a faint taste of blood lingering in the scrapes and cuts he saw on her neck; and under it all, wound around her like a snake, salt and seawater and sex.

It angers him unreasonably to think of them together — isn't she entitled to whatever comfort she can find, in all this mess, in the destruction of her life? But how could she, how could she trust that… trust _him_ with her body, her self, after everything he's done to her? Why does she believe the face he is showing her now, when all the others he has shown have proven false?

 _Snap out of it_ , he tells himself sternly, _it's none of your business, it's not important, not now_. They'll be at the airstrip any minute. But he wishes, just for one more moment, for the right to be angry, to take her to task, to replace that insidious scent with his own.

* * *

A warm hand on her face and a warmer voice in her ear ease her into semi-wakefulness.

"We're moving to the jet now, sweetheart, it's not far. Then you can lie down and really sleep."

She murmurs assent — she'll do whatever that voice tells her to, she thinks dizzily. The voice was right about everything all along, so it must be right now. Her eyes don't even really open; she clings to the arm next to her, and lets it guide her across the pavement, up a short flight of steps, to what might be a couch — it's something she can sit on, anyway.

The warmth beside her moves away; she doesn't like that, so she whimpers a little, reaches out. A hand takes hers immediately, squeezes it.

"I need to speak to the pilot; it will be very brief and then I'll be right back," the voice assures her. "You're safe here."

She sighs, lets the hand go, curls into the corner of her seat. Part of her wonders vaguely why everything feels so strange, misty and detached, but the rest of her just shuts down and goes back to sleep.

Less than five minutes gone and he's back in the cabin — her silent acquiescence, coupled with her edgy need have him worried. It's not like her to have no questions at all, to demand nothing; not like her to seek his touch or want him close. He's concerned about shock, about what damage the shooting, coupled with the onslaught of memory have wrought.

He finds her where he left her, curled up like a child, asleep again — rest, he thinks, can only help her. He goes to a compartment for a blanket; tucks it around her. There will be time, he thinks, dropping into the opposite end of the couch in exhaustion, time to try and work things out before they'll need to move again.

His last conscious thought is that he would kill for a hot shower.


	2. Chapter 2

The next time she wakes up, her eyes are dazzled by sunlight, and every part of her is warm right through. As her vision adjusts, she absently notes her surroundings — she's tucked up in a wide bed in a small, but bright and airy room. Everything seems to be a texture of white, and it's disorienting. She's alone, and the realization starts her panic again.

She throws back the covers, stands up. Notes with relative disinterest that she's still dressed, but for her jacket, which she doesn't see, and her boots, which are paired neatly beside the bed. She's too jittery to look at anything else, to care about her whereabouts — she needs to find him. The first door she opens is a closet, but the second leads to a hallway, and with the door open, she thinks she can hear him.

* * *

He's in a kitchen at the end of the hallway, humming to himself while he stands at an ancient-looking stove. She wants to rush to him, touch him, to make sure he's really there, but she can't. She holds onto the doorframe, and looks at him, waits for her breathing to slow.

He's showered, she can tell, and is surprisingly barefoot, in loose-fitting khakis rolled up at the hems, and an untucked white shirt. She hesitates, not sure what time, or even what day it is, aware that she's been wearing the same clothes for at least two days, and that she still has on Tom's shirt.

He turns, a pan in hand, and smiles when he sees her. "Lizzie, just in time," he says. "Come and eat — you must be starved."

She moves awkwardly to the small, round table, sits, watching while he plates up eggs, whisks toast out of the oven. He delivers the plates, goes back to the counter for two thick mugs of coffee. He sits down across from her, still smiling.

"Dig in, then," he urges, "And we'll talk about what's next."

She forks up eggs obediently. _They're really good_ , she thinks dimly, _and this is sort of nice_.

He's waiting for her to start asking questions, at least find out where they've washed up, but she sits, pale as a ghost in her unrelieved black, quietly eating eggs and watching him.

"We're on São Tomé," he offers, unnerved. "I borrowed this place from a friend I can trust. It's quiet, out of the way, near the ocean — we're alone here and we can decompress a bit while we plan our next moves."

"All right," she replies diffidently. "Whatever you want."

His eyebrows both go up at that, all his senses on alert. "What's wrong?" he demands quickly. "I'll keep you safe, you know that."

"I do," she answers, staring idly at the table. " All this time, you've been keeping me safe. And here you are, so."

"Lizzie," he starts, not sure how to respond to this new, complacent woman. "What's…"

"Are there clothes for me here?" she interrupts, still quiet. "I'd really like to shower."

A little taken aback, he replies, "Well, this trip _was_ a bit sudden. But I can give you a clean t-shirt and boxers, if you don't mind wearing my things for now. It's hot enough here."

She smiles, surprisingly, serenely. "That's fine," she says. "Anything at all will be a vast improvement."

She follows him down the hall to his bedroom, takes the small pile from him, and wanders off to the bathroom, leaving the door ajar behind her.

He stands in the doorway of his bedroom, filling up with worry and concern — whoever this woman is, it's not the one he knows.

* * *

She washes quickly, using the shampoo and soap she finds in the shower stall. The clean scents are familiar and reassuring; she feels infinitely better afterward. She moves absently through the bathroom, leaving her hair wet, using a comb and deodorant from a cupboard that she assumes belong to the homeowner. She pulls on the boxers, rolling the waist over for a better fit, and yanks what she thinks must be an undershirt over her head. It's all loose enough that she doesn't feel too odd without underwear and bra, and it's so nice to be clean again, his things crisp and neat, smelling faintly of laundry soap and Red.

She wanders out into the house, leaving her dirty things behind, uncaring, looking for him. She has a brief, choking moment of panic when she can't find him inside, but there's his head out the kitchen window, and she finds her way to a patio door and goes outside to join him, breathing deep.

* * *

He looks up at the sound of the door, watches her as she sits beside him and stares out at the ocean. He gives her a minute or two, waiting, but she just sits, and she looks so… empty.

"Lizzie," he says, "Talk to me. I'm here for you, sweetheart."

She looks at him, faint surprise showing on her face. "I know that," she replies, "I know you're here now because of me. You're the only…" she trails off, then says, "What's next, then?"

"Nothing," he says firmly, "Until you talk to me. We've got a little time here — trust me."

"But, I do," she says. "I'm sorry that it took me so long, but I do. Everything you've said to me, all the things that have happened — you're the only true thing. You don't lie to me — I thought you did, but you don't. I'll do whatever you say, whatever you want."

She's perfectly earnest and he's choking on it.

"Lizzie," he tries, "I'm pleased that you've found your way through to trusting me, I am. But we're in this together now. What you think, what you want, it matters."

She laughs at that, and he thinks he's never heard a sound so hollow.

"How can I think or want or plan?" she asks, still eerily calm. "I'm not even real. Liz… isn't real, just like her family, just like her husband, just like her whole life. All make-believe, even her name. You should decide what's best, and that's what we'll do."

She smiles at him, pats his hand, then stands up and goes back inside, heading for her room.

He sits, rooted, shocked to the core. _Not this way_ , he thinks desperately, _I wanted her belief, her trust, but not this way_.

So he sits and watches the ocean, planning — not their next move against the Cabal, not steps to evading the FBI, but how to recover the pieces of Liz, and put her back together again.

* * *

The next time she wakes up, she's screaming.


	3. Chapter 3

He bolts upright in bed, moving before he's even fully awake. Her high, pure screams are like a child's, blurring the line between past and present, and he can't get to her fast enough. In the dim light from the hallway, he sees her sitting up in bed, hands outstretched, pushing at something he can't see. Her eyes look blind and wild — she's dreaming. He puts his hands on her shoulders, calls her name and shakes her gently, trying to bring her back.

She struggles away from him, pushing frantically, scrambles into a huddled crouch on the other side of the bed, still screaming.

"Lizzie!" he cries again, "Elizabeth!" louder and firmer, and he reaches across the bed to place his hand on her face.

The instant his skin touches hers, she stops, frozen in place and silent, and awareness seeps back into her eyes, face.

"Red?" she whispers, small and frightened.

"I'm here, I'm here, sweetheart, you're okay, you're safe, I promise," he rushes, babbling, but he's so relieved.

She's scrambling again, but toward him now, clinging to his t-shirt and sobbing messily into his neck. He wraps her in his arms as tightly as he dares, running soothing hands over her hair, down her back, murmuring soft reassurances — caring for her as best as he can.

Her sobs gradually subside and her breathing evens out and deepens, but she doesn't move away. Instead, she tucks her head under his chin and lets out a long, shuddering sigh. He shifts around so that he can rest against the headboard; keeps running his hands up and down her back, breathing her in, unable to not relish the feel of her cradled against him. She's used his soap and is wearing his clothes; the other is gone now, and she smells of Lizzie and Red, which is so much better, but also of fear and tears, and that's not.

"Can you tell me about it?" he asks softly. "It will help."

She sniffles, endearingly. "I'm at the warehouse. I'm alone, but there's something in my hands, it's a gun, and when I look up, they're there, they're all there, all the faces, all the people I've killed… so many, I'm a murderer, a killer, a monster…" and she sounds utterly devastated now. "And then… then they're burning, they're all in flames, and the fire's everywhere, and I can smell them burning, it's awful, it's so awful, and they're still coming for me, on fire, but I can't get away…"

She's verging on hysteria, and he doesn't need (or want) to hear any more.

"Hush, Lizzie, hush now, darling," he soothes. "You are _not_ a monster. We are all made up of the things we have done — our experiences, successes and failures both; the people we interact with, the ones we love. If it seems difficult now to process your experiences, to keep a grip on the person that you are, sweetheart, it's because your life has been full of hard things. You've done what you had to do, and I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

He holds her a little more tightly, wishes he could take it all away like before, could chase away the darkness with a hug and a kiss, wishes it could be simple.

"It was so real," she whispers. "The sound of the flames, the heat, the _smell_ … I knew it. I _knew_ the smell of their flesh burning… why, Red? Why do I know it so well?"

He sighs — another reckoning that he's hoped would never come — and presses his cheek into her hair.

"Because," he says, low and slow and tired, "Because of me. That night… when I took you from the closet, we made it out of the house, but… you weren't the only one that was burned. My jacket… it caught a spark, but… you were in my arms, the fire was everywhere, I couldn't stop… by the time we were safe outside, my back, the flames…" He stumbles to a stop; he just can't go on.

She shifts a little in his hold; he feels her release his shirt and slide her arms around him, place her palms flat on her back.

"Oh, Red," she says, sounding perilously close to tears again. "God, Red. Let me see?"

* * *

He sits on the edge of the bed, not moving, trying not to even think. She's moving around behind him — clicks on the bedside lamp in the corner, then pads back around the bed to stand in front of him. He can't look up, can't speak, can only sit and wait, wait for everything between them to change again, and this time he doesn't think he'll be able to stand it.

She touches the top of his head, gently, then reaches down and pulls his shirt off for him. She climbs onto the bed, moves to sit behind him. He hears her quick intake of breath, then there's a long pause. He cringes inwardly, waiting, waiting for her pity, or disgust, for her anger over the way he's kept this secret.

Instead, he feels the light touch of her fingers, tracing along the map of tissue, following its distorted patterns, soothing him with her hands. It makes him shiver and relax, all at once.

"Oh, Red," she says, again, somehow managing regret without pity. "I'm so sorry." And she wraps her arms carefully around him, and rests her cheek against his bare skin.

Disbelieving, barely breathing, he reaches up, covers her hands with his. "I'd live it again in a heartbeat," he says quietly. "For you."

And she can't think of a single thing to say.

* * *

They sit, pressed together, for long minutes, finding solace in their quiet communion.

Then she yawns, suddenly, and he presses her hands gently, then loosens her arms and stands up, turns to look down at her.

"Try and get some sleep, Lizzie," he says. "You need it." He reaches out, tucks her hair behind her ear. Picks his shirt up off the bed, turns toward the door.

Panic rises as she watches him walk away. "Don't," she chokes out, voice harsh and loud in the quiet room. "Don't go, I… I need you. Stay with me, please, Red? Don't leave me alone?"

It's a long moment before he finds the strength to turn back to her; when he does, his face is smooth and blank.

"Of course, sweetheart," he says, a little hoarse. "Whatever you need."

He steps back to the bed, lies on his back with his hands behind his head, closes his eyes. She reaches out to turn off the lamp, curls up beside him, soaking up his warmth, the reassuring strength of his presence.

"Thank you," she whispers, as her eyes drift shut.

She thinks she hears, from the edge of sleep, his quiet reply.

"Always."


	4. Chapter 4

In the morning, he's still there in her bed, curled on his side, watching her sleep. Her face wears a rare peaceful look; it warms him that she seems to feel secure with him. When she blinks awake and sees him, she smiles.

"You stayed," she says, feeling pleased and showing it.

He raises an eyebrow at her. "I said I would."

"Yeah," she replies. "But… thanks."

"I'll always do what I can to care for you, sweetheart," he says softly. "Which is why we still need to talk about what's happened."

She sits up abruptly, turns away. "I disagree," she says flatly. "I don't want to talk."

"Lizzie," he starts, a warning clear in his voice.

"I don't need a lecture, either," she snaps. Then she pauses. "I'm sorry; I don't want to argue. I just… don't have anything left here."

He looks at the curve of her back as she slumps away from him; wants to reach out, but can't.

"Are you hungry?" he asks, instead. "I'll make us breakfast." _There's time_ , he thinks, _I don't have to push too hard now, there's time for her to figure out who she wants to be_.

She turns her head and smiles at him again. "I would, thanks," she answers.

"And we're not far from Neves," he offers. "We can drive in later, pick up some things for you. Clothes, toiletries… "

She drops her gaze, plucks at the sheet around her hips. "All right," she says quietly. "If we're staying here awhile there are things I'll need. I… don't mind wearing your clothes, though," she adds, looking up at him through her lashes.

Swallowing the sudden lump in his throat, he smiles. "You should probably put your own back on for the trip to town — we wouldn't want to shock anyone."

His tone is teasing, but his eyes spark a little. She sees it, and something low and deep inside her warms in response.

"If you think so," she replies equably. "It's true I've never shopped wearing boxer shorts before. But I'll keep your t-shirt, if it's all the same to you."

She climbs out of bed and heads for the bathroom, leaving him smiling behind her.

Just a little thing, but God, it makes him happy.

* * *

Their trip takes a bit longer than he'd hoped, but they need a lot. She sticks close to him, on her own only as long as she needs to find basic underthings (and that reluctantly). He's a little worried about her reticence, but he's enjoying their time together too much to start anything over it.

After their return to the house, they settle easily enough into a routine; a simple companionship. He does most of the cooking; she keeps things tidy. She likes to walk on the beach, tickle her toes in the surf; he likes to nap stretched out in the sun. She loves to have him read to her, his rich voice a panacea to her wounds. She won't talk about the recent past, but his gentle, persistent questioning has her talking of older times — stories of growing up with Sam, of her mildly rebellious adolescence, of college, the Academy, and Quantico. He's building a picture of her, and can see that she's starting to do the same; starting to find her footing in herself again.

The days are sunny and calm. They float together, not doing anything in particular, just quietly existing — but together, learning each other and working on making something new. She's fine on her own as long as she knows where he is, but she's still shocky and nervous, prone to panic, and it keeps them both just a little bit off kilter.

The nights are worse — after the third, he doesn't bother going to his own bed anymore. Without him, she invariably wakes up screaming; with him, it's better, and if dreams come, he's alert enough to wake her before it gets bad, or soothe her with touch or a few bars of The Anniversary Waltz. She gravitates to him in her sleep, so that when she wakes up, she's always close — clinging to his side or curled into him as near as she can manage. She wonders, the second morning in a row, if it should embarrass her, but is really just glad he's there — he is her touchstone in her disintegrated world, and without him, she thinks she might go mad.

 _So close, so far away_ , he thinks, with a touch of bitterness. If she knew the thoughts and feelings that rise up in him as he watches her curl up for sleep in his shorts, when he strokes his hands through her hair in the dark, when he wakes to the intoxicating warmth of her body flush to his or with her limbs wrapped around him — angry Liz would return with a vengeance. It's a good thing he's used to going without much sleep.

* * *

On the seventh morning, she wakes up first — the first time she's caught him sleeping. Early morning sun is drifting through the light curtains, glinting off the fuzz of his hair, his long eyelashes, gilding the strong lines of his features. He's got freckles, she's surprised to see, or maybe they've just come out in these days in the sun — she loves them.

She's suddenly overwhelmed with tenderness for this man, her savior, her safe place, and thinks (not for the first time) how good he looks. In this golden moment, everything about him is beautiful. She thinks, or doesn't think, of kissing him, of making him hers for real, for keeps. And she is no more than a half-inch away from his lips when the early-morning rumble of his voice stops her cold.

"Lizzie," confused but fierce, "What _are_ you doing?"


	5. Chapter 5

She's frozen in place, not even breathing. Bright green eyes blink open and focus on her own.

"Lizzie?" he rumbles again. "Is this just a friendly wake-up call?" He's careful to keep it flip, careful not to let in even a tendril of hope, even with her so close.

His tone makes her flinch a little, then she can take a breath, re-evaluate.

"No," she says, hesitant, but earnest, "No, Red, I…"

"Or maybe," he continues, suddenly furious. "Maybe you're just lonely. Missing someone in particular, are you?" His voice is so bitter, but he can't stop himself, doesn't even want to.

"What? I don't know what you're… Red…"

"Oh, cut the crap, _Liz_." He can't stop the rush of hateful words; months and months of swallowing her rage welling up and out like bile in his throat. "I know you were with Tom. It was all over you like a second skin. I'll do almost anything for you, even now, but I won't be a stand-in… especially not for him." And then he manages to stop himself before he goes entirely too far.

She sits back now, shocked at the anger, at the venom in his voice and the distaste in his face — she's seen him like this before, but never with her, never _at_ her, and it takes her a moment to regroup. She takes a shaky breath — _no lies between us anymore_ , she reminds herself, _no matter what it costs_.

"It's not that, Red, I promise you," she says. "I've had a lot of time over the last week, to think, try to process everything that's happened."

He sits up too, and looks at her with eyes full of pain. "No excuses," he answers roughly. "I'm not really interested." He can't take it, anything but this, her in his arms; it's too hard, too much to ask him to pretend.

She flinches again; he's so angry, but she needs to make it right. She's tired of being angry, tired of fighting with him, tired of the wounds they give each other.

"I'm not making excuses," she says, stronger now, marshaling herself. "I wouldn't, not to you, not now. I just want to tell you some things. Will you listen, Red?"

And because she asks instead of insisting, because even in this, he can't deny her, he just nods and drops his gaze to the sheets, to his hands.

"Okay," she says, taking another breath. "You know I've been… struggling — long before Connolly. Losing everything that I thought mattered. You and I were… at odds, and you were dealing with the fallout from the shooting and the Fulcrum and basically everything but me. You were blocking me at every turn. I was so angry, and I felt so alone. And Tom… Jacob… he was working pretty hard to get close. He was like… Tom-Plus; charming and funny, and honest — I think. I thought… maybe I could have him back, I could get that back, be that Liz again, and everything would be okay. But it wasn't. It wasn't okay."

He feels a bit lighter and a bit sadder, all at once. "Look," he starts, able to meet her eyes again.

"No," she interrupts him, stronger still, now. "You look. Listen. I know that I've been unfair to you, I know, looking back, that everything you've done has been to protect me. But you keep so many secrets, and the first thing you ever taught me was that I couldn't trust anyone. Not the Bureau, not my father, not my husband — not even myself. You purposely left me with nothing to hold on to but you, then made yourself unreliable, capricious. When I lashed out at you… every time I tried to push you away was a time I though you had lied to me, that you were using me. I was so afraid in those times. So afraid you'd disappear out of my life the same way you popped into it."

She has to stop, take a deep breath — she can hear herself getting worked up and shrill, and she needs to be calm, rational, so he'll accept what she wants to say.

He wants to hold her, to reassure her, but he's still angry, too. His heart is pounding so hard that he's sure she can hear it, and he's not even sure why. He hasn't felt this unbalanced in years, maybe decades, and he thought he was too old to be so foolish. He reaches out to take her trembling hands in his.

"Lizzie, sweetheart," he says, finding an even tone somewhere inside himself. "Don't do this to yourself. ( _Or to me_ , he thinks.) I'm not leaving now, not ever — we're in this together. You don't have to pretend some kind of… try to convince me that you…"

"Is that what you think?" she snaps, angry now despite her best intentions. "Of me? Of us? That I would, what, seduce you, just to keep you close? Damn it, Red, I'm trying to tell you something here. I pushed you away only when I thought you didn't care, because I did, I _do_ , so much that I couldn't stand the thought that I meant nothing to you. I've lied, cheated, stolen… Jesus, Red, I've _killed_ for you, not just once, but again and again. I shot Connolly because he was planning your execution."

Now it's him that can't catch his breath; he clings to her hands, a maelstrom of emotion sweeping over him. "Oh, sweetheart," he murmurs, "I'm sorry. I wish…"

"I'm not," she says, surprised at herself now, but sure. "I'm not sorry. I've told you before, you're not the only one who cares. If I'm yours to protect, to care for, then you're mine."

"Lizzie," he says, stricken, "I… don't know what to say."

She gathers all the courage she has left.

"He told me something about you — Tom did," she says softly. "He said that you would devour me — take everything I am and leave me an empty shell. Was he right, Red? Will you devour everything that's left of me? Or will you make me whole again?"

And quickly, so he has no time to protest, to stop her, she presses her lips to his in a kiss nearly two years in the making.


	6. Chapter 6

Her heart pounds in her ears, her blood rushing through her like the incoming tide. As many times as she's imagined this moment — and she has, secretly, desperately — she's never conceived, couldn't have, the effect he would have, the burn of her response. She feels flush with adrenaline, every cell in her body awake in an entirely new way. Even as she draws away, keeping it brief, not wanting to give away too much, she can see how everything has changed — the air in the room, the colours, are brighter and cleaner, the details of everything she can see are sharper, more lovely. It's as if this one touch has ripped away the veil she's been hiding behind since her life turned into a lie.

Wondering and delighted, she looks into his eyes, wanting to see the change reflected in him, too — so relieved when she does. He looks as stricken as she feels, and she wonders what her face looks like in this breathless moment. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but instead, he reaches out to cradle her face in his hands, and he kisses her back.

He kisses, she thinks distantly, like he does everything else — with that singular intensity and devastating sensuality, like kissing her now, in this moment, is the only thing he wants, is all he's ever wanted, and it's intoxicating. She thinks she could drown in him, just in the touch of his mouth. Then his tongue sweeps across her lips, gentle but demanding, and her thoughts derail completely.

* * *

He feels her whole body shudder as she opens her mouth, slides her tongue along his. Her hands clutch at his arms, and he shifts to wrap an arm around her and bring her close. Up against him, she's soft and pliable, she yields completely in a way that's both trusting and inviting. It disarms him, temporarily quiets his reservations, and it's all so much better than anything he's dreamed, and the taste of her is sweet and addictive.

He runs his free hand into her hair, and he feels like a teenager again, like this kissing, this discovery, is enough to set him off, like he doesn't dare move his hands to her body for fear he'll just explode. She asked if he would devour her, and this isn't what she meant, but he wants to, God, he wants her with a burning in his gut and he could feast on her for hours.

Then, it's her grabbing hold, one hand on his shoulder and the other wrapped around his neck, and she's pulled herself into his lap and he's surrounded by her, engulfed, exhilarated, lost and found all at once. Her hand slides off his shoulder and down his arm, around his waist where she finds her way under the hem of his t-shirt and flattens her palm against his lower back. The touch of her warm skin on his is like a brand, like an electric shock, and _no_ , he thinks, _no_. He breaks away from her mouth and drops his head to her shoulder, reaching for breath and for sanity in equal measure.

* * *

She licks her lips, tasting him, and feels bereft, which is ridiculous considering how she's still pressed flush against him, their arms wrapped around each other. But her need is like a raging storm inside her, and she can _feel_ him withdrawing mentally, even as he presses into her shoulder, his breath hot and damp on her neck. And her instincts are right, because after a minute he pulls away, gathers her hands in his own to put more distance between them, and she wants to howl like a wounded animal.

"Lizzie." He says her name, and she finds some small solace in the fact that he sounds like he's struggling for composure. "This isn't right. Not now. You…"

" _NO_ ," she interrupts, feeling violent, sounding it. "You had better not be about to tell me how I _really_ feel, that you're not worth it, that I'm…" she trails off, because his eyes are dark, and his face is angry now, too.

"What I was going to say," he continues, with that killing politeness that always makes her want to smack him, "Is that you are still rebuilding, and I won't act as a stand-in. Not for another man, or an excuse to avoid your problems. I can't." And he stops abruptly, before he gives away too much, before he reveals how desperately he wants her, how it will break him to have her and lose her again.

She's about to lash back — defensiveness is her go-to, always — but reconsiders when she sees the raw emotion swimming at the back of his gaze. It leaves her hopeful, temporarily stills the raging tide inside.

"Red," she says, "I'm not using you, this — I swear it. I…" And she wants to stay honest, to keep truth between them, especially now, so she takes the risk. "I might have been, at first. I can't deny there's a lot in my mind I just want to forget. But the instant we touched — how can you doubt that was real? I don't. I've never felt like this, so… overwhelmed. You _know_ I care about you, and now… now, I've never wanted anything, any _one_ , as much as I want you right now. I _know_ you feel it too, Red, please, don't lie to me."

She feels the shiver run through him as she finishes, and his hands flex around hers like he's grasping at control.

"Forgive me, then," he says, finally, low and velvet, and she just wants to roll in his voice and wrap it around herself like a blanket. "I certainly didn't mean to imply that I don't want you, Lizzie. It's more that I _do_ — so much it's all I can do to sit here right now talking to you instead of tearing off your clothes and spending the rest of the day buried inside you."

She gasps, flushing, everything in her getting hotter, more restless at his unapologetic frankness.

"I don't understand, then," she manages. "We're adults, we're… attracted to each other, why…"

"That's just it," he talks over her, his eyes burning. "I'm not just attracted to you. It won't be enough for me to ease you this once and then move on. You have to be sure — sure of what you really want — because if we go down this road, there will be no turning back." And his voice is soft but somehow sharp, it echoes deep inside her, and his eyes are dark and dangerous.

She feels a little dangerous herself, though, looking at him, blinders off, everything in this moment so real that it almost hurts. She's already sure of what she wants — has come to the conclusion that her feelings for him run far deeper than she's wanted to admit, that she's been fighting them, fighting herself, for months. Well, now she's ready, ready to fight _for_ him instead of against him. She can see him trying to make the mental shift back to his customary warmly distant persona, shielding himself against the hurt he's come to expect from her, and she's not going to let him pull away.

"I know what I want, Red," she says, and tugs on his hands to bring him close again. "You want me to figure out who I am, and I'm working on it, on finding myself and being honest with myself and with you. One of the things I am is someone who cares for you, and who wants you. Be brave with me, Red — give us a chance."

* * *

 **A/N: I know, I know, please don't hit me! Next chapter I'm going to have to up the rating to M, so adjust or follow if you need to, if you want to stick with me.**


	7. Chapter 7

He feels like time has stopped, like the continuation of the world around them is waiting on his answer. He's almost sure this would be a mistake, sure that she's caught up in her new vulnerability, mortality, searching for an anchor in this tumultuous new life. But as he looks at her, trying to read her as he always does, all he can see is the inner core of strength in her, ready to take another risk. And she's so beautiful — dark hair still tumbled from sleep, face flushed with arousal, dark blue eyes no longer fragile, but hungry and wanting. He knows there's only one answer, can only be one answer, but he can't speak, is lost to words, so he frees one of his hands to slide around the nape of her neck and pull in her into him for another kiss.

He can feel her relief in the ease of her body, her gladness as she sighs into his mouth, and she melts into him, uses her free hand to cup his face — showing him a tenderness that disarms him far more than passion. He frees his other hand to wrap around her waist; she's pressed against him already, but it's not close enough, not nearly close enough. She trails her fingers along his neck, down his arm, traces the muscles of his thigh — anywhere she can reach that's already bare. Her touch leaves tingling lines of fire behind, leaves his nerve endings pulsing and aching for more of her. He breaks away, just enough to peel off his shirt, to watch as she does the same.

"Beautiful," he breathes out, "So beautiful, sweetheart." And he bends his head to her breast, needing to taste her, take her in.

She moans as he licks at her, sucks on her nipple; then digs her nails into his arms when he uses his teeth, pulling gently. Heat blossoms, rushes through her, the intense pleasure as fulfilling as it is unexpected. She scratches at the back of his head with one hand, runs the other through the fine hair on his chest, down along his stomach before he catches her and pulls her hand around him instead.

"Patience, Lizzie," he murmurs, and she thinks she can feel him smile against her skin. "There's no hurry."

He leans his head back a bit to blow lightly on her wet skin; hums in satisfaction as her nipple tightens and swells in response, and she lets out a mewl of pleasure mixed with frustration. He takes a minute to rub his head affectionately along her cheek, soothing her, before he twists his body and presses her down into the mattress, propping himself on his elbows above her. His kisses blaze a trail down her neck to her other breast, which he proceeds to explore as devastatingly as he did the first.

She's desperate with desire, her body screaming for touch, for friction — she wraps her legs around his hips and pulls, but he's resisting her and he's surprisingly strong. He's using his teeth again, a little less gently, and no one's ever touched her that way before and she quite literally can't take anymore, so she finds the tiny round scar on his carotid and laps at it hungrily, and when she feels a quivering in response she bites down on it.

He gives a growl in answer, and raises his head to look at her. "Like that, is it, darling?" he drawls, tucking her hair behind her ear in easy affection.

" _Yes_ ," she answers definitively, shameless and hungry, and she tugs at him again, arms and legs both this time.

He rumbles a happy laugh that reverberates right through her. "All right, then," he says, and drops his weight into her, taking her mouth again as he presses into her, all soft and warm and _his_.

He's impossibly, furiously hard against her, and she can't help the little movements her hips start to make, rubbing against him, and if she could think at all she might be embarrassed about how wet she is already, and she's maybe ruined this pair of boxers.

"Mmmmm," he's groaning, now, "Slow down, love, I can't… hmmmm…" and he doesn't want it to be over so quickly, wants to wring every ounce of pleasure out of this coupling that he can. He drags a hand down her body and slips under the waistband of her shorts ( _his_ , the smug thought flits through his mind), slides his fingers into her slick folds to the swollen nub of her clitoris; starts to rub in delicate little circles.

She cries out, whimpers into his mouth, and he encourages her, "That's it, sweetheart, tell me, tell me what you want, what you like — like this?" and he increases the pressure, "Or like this?" and he pinches with his thumb. That makes her cry out again, louder, sweeter, and her thigh muscles clench around him and she can't breathe.

"That's it, sweetheart," he croons, low voice in her ear, "Go over, now, love, I've got you." And he shifts his hand, keeping the circling pressure on her clit with his thumb while he thrusts two fingers inside her. She comes apart in his arms, splintering, fracturing, gasping his name; the look on her face is one that he will remember, always.

* * *

When her vision clears, and her hands and feet stop tingling, she notes that her abused shorts have disappeared along with his, and she's blanketed in the warmth of his body as he strokes her hair and kisses his way up her neck. She thinks that she might actually be relaxed, for the first time in longer than she cares to think about. She stretches under him with a hum of contentment; feels the hot, hard length of him press into the curve of her hip. Desire rekindles deep inside her, languid as a curl of smoke, and she reaches between them to wrap a hand around him.

He twitches eagerly in her grasp, and his whole body shivers at her touch. "You'll have to explore another time, Lizzie," he says, his voice raw. "I can't wait anymore, and — uhmmm — if you keep doing _that_ , I won't be able to."

She laughs a little, pleased, and gives him one last stroke. He gives her a long, deep kiss, then leans over to rummage in the drawer of the nightstand, comes back with a condom in hand.

"You do flee from the law prepared," she says teasingly. "Were you a Boy Scout? Or did I miss you picking these up the other day?"

"Never you mind," he answers mock-sternly, rolling deftly. "A man has to have some secrets."

And he wants to draw it out, tease her a bit, show off a little maybe, but he's waited so long, and she's in his arms, eyes all cloudy with want, holding him like she means it, and he can't, he just can't. He lines himself up and pushes into her in on long, smooth thrust that has them both gasping — she's hot and wet and snug around him, and he manages to hold still for a couple of breaths to regain at least a semblance of control.

She's thinking how perfectly they seem to fit together, how unbelievably good she feels, and then he starts moving and it all changes again. They establish a rhythm easily enough, no fumbling or awkwardness, and it isn't long before she's drowning again, lost in an agony of sensation that threatens to overwhelm.

He's well past overwhelmed; he's trembling like a boy, and it's been so long since this act was more than a mere physical function — albeit a pleasant one — this, this is so much _more_. He's welling over with love and wonder and Liz, and he murmurs nonsense into her ear as they move together, and hopes that she's far gone enough not to understand him.

She builds again, simple and lovely, on a wave of emotion she's not quite ready to name; crests almost gently, on a sigh of his name. "Oh," she says, "Oh, Red," then, holding him closer, " _Ray_ ," and it pushes him over the edge after her, tumbling.

He buries his face in her neck as he pulses inside her, needing to hide the naked emotion he knows must be emblazoned there, needing to hide even as he gives her everything he has.

* * *

They drift into sleep, still wrapped together in a tangle of naked limbs, his head heavy on her chest, in a warm patch of mid-morning sun, dreamless and complete.


	8. Chapter 8

The next time she wakes up, it's to the ephemeral sensation of the soft prickle of his close-shorn hair ghosting along her thighs; of his lips and tongue teasing at her core. His back is dappled with shifting dots of sunlight and everything's a little hazy from the gauzy curtains, and it's beautiful. She shifts a little — it's like a dream, and she's halfway gone before she's even really awake.

A large, warm hand takes possession of her breast, caressing, molding, his thumb rubbing across her already pebbled nipple — she can't help but arch into his touch. He's ensnaring her with his hands and mouth, and she has to force herself to draw a shaky breath; he dips gently inside her then, and she clutches at the rumpled sheet beneath her.

"Ray," she says, "Ray, _please_ …" though she's not even sure what she's asking for, can only dizzily think that it's too much, _too much_ , but also not enough.

He doesn't stop to answer her with words, but instead just hums assent into her; the vibrations make her shiver and twitch and grab for his hand at her breast. He sucks hard at her clit, then; uses his free hand to thrust a long finger into her, then another, stroking. She lets out a wordless cry, her breath sobbing in her ears as she orgasms like a flash of sunlight, pulsing around his fingers, into his mouth.

Then, he's there, his warm body cradling hers, soothing her through the storm of sensation with a hand in her hair, his voice in her ear, "That's it, Lizzie, love, hold on to me, sweetheart," as he kisses her face, her temples, her neck, across her collarbone, and he slides into her while she's still lost.

She's warm and wet, and with her core still throbbing, he has to still for a minute, gather himself — she's like silk and cream around him, and she feels like home. She wraps her arms and legs around him, urging him silently to move, floating on the edge of ecstasy. He licks at the pulse in her neck, sucks hard, wanting to mark her, claim her as his own, even though there's no one else around to notice.

He times his movement to the beat of her heart, swamped with love and need, shaking and shaken, he tips over the edge and releases into her with a groan as she holds him close. He drops into her, just for a minute, he thinks, just until he can put himself back together inside. She brings up a trembling hand to rub at the back of his head, feeling limp and relaxed and as content as a cat in the afternoon sun — if she could purr, she thinks dreamily, she would.

* * *

They shower together, afterward, and it's another new kind of intimacy — he washes her hair, his fingers on her scalp soothing and pleasurable; she runs soapy hands over him, learning the contours of his body.

They eat, cold foods — fruit, cheese, soft bread — too ravenous to wait for anything to cook. They curl up together in a lounge chair behind the house, watching the ocean in companionable silence until the sun sets in a blaze of fire nearly sublime in its beauty. Or maybe it's just them, the way they feel, maybe it's just the effect of a day filled with love.

In the dark, she leads him back to her bed and it's slow and gentle and perfect. She takes him with a tenderness she never guessed was hiding inside her; he pours love into her with every touch, and pretends that she feels it too.

* * *

The days start to slip by in a delightful haze. She has known him as a tactile person since their second or third encounter — now, it seems like he has been starved for touch, taking her hand, her arm, rubbing at the nape of her neck, cupping her face for a kiss, running his fingers through her hair or a hand over her leg when they sit together. Driven by need, he can't stop from reaching for her at any and every given opportunity — his hunger has been borne too long to be easily sated. _He's insatiable_ , she thinks, a little surprised — not that she minds, really. He takes her quick and hard, without warning, against walls, on tables; yanks her over him on the couch, demanding and fierce; tumbles her, laughing, into the grass by the house; seduces her soft and slow and lovely in their bed, where he frequently wakes her with his mouth and hands, in the night, in the morning. When her body is sore inside and out, she ministers to him in turn with mouth and hands, soft or hard, or any number of places between. But she never once turns him away.

In the in-between times, he is as vocal as ever, filling the air with stories of his past, with advice for the future, with information about the Cabal. Only now, always, his speech is peppered with more and more affection; sweetheart, darling, love — and when he thinks she is asleep or too far gone to listen, mine, Lizzie, mine.

She makes him walk with her on the beach, to strengthen his lungs, pushes him to spar with her though he refuses to hit her. When she can, she tells him her own stories, more about Sam, about living in New York, eventually, finally, about Tom and Cooper and Connolly — she calls him Ray, and tries not to think about it.

They both get stronger every day — after three weeks, he is as healthy and strong as he has ever been; she is lean and fit and better emotionally than she has been in a long time. She's finding a new sense of self inside the wreckage of the Liz that she was, in a process of measured steps beside him, in talking and planning, in the physical and emotional bonds being forged between them.

The air is hotter and damper than when they first arrived. She goes around in a loose dress, or on bad days, just a bathing suit. He's comfortable enough by now to give up on shirts entirely, but refuses to wear shorts, preferring his rolled-up khakis or an extremely disreputable pair of jeans that she couldn't have imagined him in, but loves after she's seen them.

It hits her one day, snuggled under his arm on the beach while he reads to her from a collection of Wodehouse ("Everyone needs to laugh, Lizzie, love."), that she's happy, right down to her bones. Despite everything that's happened, even with all she's lost, even though they're hiding now, criminals, and only temporarily safe. That's when she knows, without any more room for doubt, how much he has come to mean to her; that's when she knows, she's in love with him — she loves him, and the knowledge fills her with fear.


	9. Chapter 9

… _she knew that love leaves a wound that leaves a scar…  
_ _love is stronger than death_.  
Jeanette Winterson, _The Daylight Gate_

They've been three weeks in this island hideaway when love hits her like a sledgehammer, leaves her scrambling, fearful, desperate. It has taken most, if not all, of this time just to begin to climb out of the hole that love and loss had dropped her in, leaving her drowning and lost; the thought of opening up to that, to making herself vulnerable again, feels like a threat to everything she is attempting to become. She feels awkward and silly and young, and she doesn't know what to do with the avalanche of feeling rushing though her.

And all this happens in a flash (as it so often does), as she lies peacefully in the warm sand with his rumbling voice rolling over her. Outwardly, nothing has changed; inside, she's a mess. What will she do? Should she say something — now? Later? What does he really feel for her? ( _God_ , she thinks in despair, _I'm regressing_.) She knows that he cares for her, has always known, and since they've become… involved… his need for her, her touch, her company, has shown a depth of feeling that she wouldn't have guessed at.

But maybe it's just need — he's been alone, a man who was never meant to be alone, and there's no one around but her…

Her thoughts trail off as silence intrudes — he's stopped reading, and she thinks he's looking at her. She makes herself meet his eyes and smile.

"Is it time to go in?" she asks, trying for light and casual.

"Only if you want to," he replies, sounding amused. "But I seem to be in danger of losing some chest hair."

She drops her gaze and flushes; she's clutching at him so tightly that her knuckles are white. She snatches back her hand and rubs it on her shorts, panicky, twitchy.

"Deep thoughts, sweetheart?"

"I… I was just thinking about home," she says. _Coward_ , she thinks, furiously.

He sighs and drops a kiss on the top of her head. "I'm sorry, Lizzie love," he says softly. "I know it's hard, especially with no news, no intel. I should be hearing from Dembe on Wednesday; then we'll know better what's coming next."

She snuggles back into his side, hiding her burning face and wishing she could remember how to open up, to take chances.

"I don't mean to sound unhappy. This time here with you has been… like a dream, Ray, really. This place, you, us… it's been perfect."

She can feel his heartbeat speed up a little; he wraps his arms around her and squeezes.

"For me, too," he says, low and rich. "You can't imagine what this time with you has meant to me."

She kisses him, then, has to, overwhelmed with love and need. She moves over him, holds his face in her hands, and hopes that at least some of what she's feeling reaches him as she lets the tide sweep her under.

* * *

She finds herself watching him whenever she can, when he's not paying attention.

The way the muscles move in his back while he chops vegetables in the kitchen.

The expressions that play over his face while he shaves.

The way everything in his body eases when he sleeps beside her — a peace she's never seen in him before, or at any other time.

 _Oh,_ she thinks wistfully, _oh, how love makes everything so beautiful_.

* * *

She starts to feel ridiculous in her near obsession — they are already as close as two people can be, and it's not just the physical. He's been there supporting her every step of the way as she rebuilds herself, listening to her, talking to her, providing a broad shoulder when she needs it. Why, why, why can't she just talk to him? Why is she still letting fear control her, after everything that's happened? ( _Still letting Tom run your show_ , she thinks, despising herself.)

And after a couple of days, she can't take the noise of the thoughts circling around in her head anymore. Everything is so lovely and perfect in this world he has made for her, for them, and he's reading while he eats breakfast across the table from her, but his foot is rubbing hers gently, and it just spills out of her like music.

"I love you, Ray," and he slowly looks up at her with an expression she can't quite read, but that she thinks might look like hope. The words taste so good in her mouth that she has to say them again. "Ray, I love you."

* * *

The past weeks have been a heady combination of the most incredible wish fulfillment and the most exquisite torture. Having her with him, to touch, kiss, to wrap up in his love, is more than he could have dreamed. It's also never quite enough. He worries that he is giving away too much, with his affection, the endearments that slip into his speech, his need to touch her, hold her, be with her — and it all fades to nothing in the face of his insatiable need to be inside her, to love her again and again.

He knows that she cares for him; can no longer doubt that her feelings are real and true. But she is also searching for a foundation, finding strength in their closeness, bolstering herself. He doesn't mind being used, wants more than anything to help her, but he doesn't think he could bear the pity he would surely see in her eyes if she ever realized the depths, the intensity of his feelings for her.

So he puts some effort into compartmentalizing; to enjoying their time together, to giving her everything she needs, while he walls away the wild part of his love, the part that rages to claim her as his own and never let her go. And he waits, for the real world to recall their attention, for things to start to change again, and for her to remember her fear and loathing.

* * *

Her words don't really register the first time; the book is one of his favourites, and he treasures these quiet moments, knowing that they won't last. But something in the back of his brain nudges at him ( _she said… did she say…_ ), so he looks up at her, trying to keep his face blank. He's met with her dark blue eyes, damp, trying to snare his own, her cheeks flushed, hands clasped together as if she's trying to keep herself from reaching out.

"Ray, I love you," she says, and offers a tremulous smile.

He thinks his heart might have stopped, or maybe it's actually time — sunlight shimmers in the air between them, making everything look like a memory. It occurs to him that she must be waiting for him to say something; focuses enough to see her face start to falter.

"Lizzie," he breathes, reaching, grasping her hands in his. "Oh, sweetheart… you must know I love you. Was there any doubt?"

"You didn't say so," she says, feeling stupid. "I mean, we've gotten so close, but I…"

"Lizzie, I have loved you…" _temper it_ , he warns himself, _don't overwhelm her_ , but he can't seem to stop the tumult of words. "Since you walked back into my life. So strong, so passionate. All your pieces, the way you fit together. Watching you find your place in the world, over and over, with so much resilience. Defiant and fierce, but still warm and caring, even for a monster like me. Everything about you is beautiful, love."

She _is_ overwhelmed now, and scrambles around the table to crawl into his lap, curl into him, to feel his heartbeat and his arms around her.

"Ray, you… you astonish me," she says simply. "You are the strong one — you've been there for me, no matter how hard I tried to push you away, guiding me, keeping me safe. Your care for your people, for the lost and helpless. You're beautiful to me, too."

And then she kisses him, because she can't wait anymore.


	10. Chapter 10

She kisses him, because she can't wait anymore; she kisses him, because everything in her is yearning for him; she kisses him, because she wants to taste him with love in her mouth.

The first time she kissed him, with the pent-up frustrations, emotions, longing of two years behind it, had been intense, thrilling, an awakening of feelings and sensations she didn't know she had inside her. Now, flooded with love, that first kiss might as well have been a casual peck between friends.

Now, she feels it, right through her body to the ends of her fingers and toes. Everything in her lights up like a candle, a low-burning flame; she goes hot and soft and pliable all at once, like she could melt right into him where their bodies touch. His arms are strong around her, and one of his hands comes up to tangle in her hair.

 _He's trembling_ , she thinks, lost in a haze of wonder.

She can feel his heart pounding against hers, thinks she might even be able to feel the blood rushing through his veins. She's so dizzy with it, she feels almost ethereal — she's never come anywhere close to this deep, not lost in love, but found.

He sighs into her, clinging to her; whispers her name into her mouth again and again. "Lizzie, love, my love, oh Lizzie…"

"Ray," she murmurs, drawing back a hair, just a hair, just enough to speak (and it's still too much), "Come to bed."

* * *

He had thought, after nearly three weeks, that he knew her — they have kept nothing back from each other as they came together, over and over. He had thought he knew her touch, her body, as well as his own — better, even.

Now he knows — he knew nothing, nothing at all of the real Lizzie. This woman, this living flame in his arms, is all new to him. He has loved her, thought he was already full of feeling, as full as he could get — she already overwhelmed his view and made up his world. But this, this — the feel of her, the taste, God, it's all new again. It makes him feel new, too, pulls at him, opens places inside him he'd forgotten were there.

 _This,_ he thinks dizzily, blood humming, _this is what love does, what love is — it remakes you, remakes you both into something beautiful_.

"Come to bed," she says, so he just stands up, his arms wrapped around her, her wrapped around him.

He feels her hook her heels together around him, as she presses her mouth back to his, slides her tongue in. He stumbles into the hall — she's not heavy, and he feels so amazing that he thinks he could run a marathon, but he's also shaking like a boy and dizzy with love and lust. They bump up against the wall, so he presses her briefly into it, kissing her, sucking, devouring, until he has to breathe. She laughs softly into the air between them, and the sound is something precious.

He rolls away and manages to make it a few more feet before he's distracted by her hands, which have found their way under his shirt to scratch at his back, to trace over the contours of his body. He falls back, this time, to let her explore him anew, her touch igniting him within until he thinks he might actually burst into flame.

He groans, struggles up and along. She's everywhere around him, her touch, her scent, she's all he can see or feel or taste — a universe of Liz. He finally makes it to their bed and backs her down onto it, gently disengaging her arms and legs so that he can draw back enough to look at her.

"You," he says softly, "Make the most exquisitely beautiful picture. And mine, Lizzie, mine now."

"Yes," she says, confident in love and strong with it. "Yours, now, always."

* * *

He strips off his shirt and leans down to peel hers away from her. Hovers, just looking at her, his piercing eyes soft now, soft with love and longing, and everything in her trembles in response — oh, how she loves him, and she reaches out. He lets out his breath slowly, and then his hands and his mouth are everywhere, hot and silky and smooth, covering her so that all her senses, too, are full, full of Red.

She can't think, can barely breathe — it's so much, so much, and her back arches into him as he finds all her most sensitive points, all the places on her body he has discovered over their time together. She's overwhelmed with love, a quivering mass of heat and need; he's slowly destroying her with touch.

She manages to bring her arms around him to cling, dig into his back, into his scalp. Their legs tangle together as he moves against her, making her his, his touch starting to leave trails of sensation, like he's painting her in soft little strokes, inside and out.

She wants to talk to him, tell him these amazing things that are happening to her, tell him again how she loves him. But she can't, she can't, all that comes out of her are sobbing little moans of pleasure and want, but maybe that will be good enough.

His hands are very busy now, stripping her out of the rest of her clothes, tearing away his own, murmuring love into her skin. He cups her gently, but she doesn't need or want anything but him; he shudders at the feel of her slick and ready under his hand.

He slides into her like a dream of something she can't quite remember, and nothing has ever felt, ever _been_ so perfectly right. She wraps herself around him, holds him to her in the cradle of her body as they start to move together.

It's familiar and new all at once, and as they tide rises within her, she thinks, dreamily, that they must be glowing — she is molten, made of gold. As his movements become less controlled, faster and rougher, clutching her close, tilting her hips; as she feels herself start to tip over the edge and take him along with her, she finds her voice again and the words are so beautiful and warm in her mouth she says them out loud.

"I love you, Ray," on a sigh of completion. "Ray, I love you."


	11. Chapter 11

He dreams of the ocean.

Surrounded by blues and greens and white, the horizon so far away it doesn't even seem real, the sun glaringly bright and unforgiving. The scent of salt and that certain something the waves seem to carry. God, he loves it — he feels the calm wash through him in a way it only ever has on the water; in a way it hasn't for more years than he can count.

He looks at his hands on the rail, the wood worn and smooth, the colour of honey. Another hand slips over his, warm and soft and right. _Lizzie_ , he thinks happily, _of course_.

And then he wakes, suddenly but not suddenly at all, as if nothing has really changed. Like he just turned his head and found himself elsewhere. He takes a deep breath — there's still a hint of ocean in the air, breezing through the cracked-open window, but his immediate awareness fills with her.

She's cuddled into his side, one arm draped over his chest, her leg wrapped over his, her head on his shoulder, breath tickling his neck. His cheek is pressed against her head and his arms are around her. He shifts his head a little to breathe in her scent, to make sure that this is real, and not another dream.

He still can't quite trust it — the twists and turns that have brought them here, together, the vagaries of fate that thrust her into his arms. But no, she said it, unsolicited, out of nowhere, she said that she loves him. Together, he thinks they can be strong — strong enough to take on the Cabal, the FBI, the world. And yet, he wants more desperately than ever to keep her safe. He can't even bear to wake her, not even to tell her again how much he loves her.

He wishes he could keep her here with him forever, safe in this quiet haven, safe in his arms.

He wishes he was strong enough to keep the world at bay.

* * *

She doesn't dream at all.

She wakes easily, flush with a sense of well-being that she can't remember ever feeling, not even as a small child. Ray is beside her, warm and reassuring; her safe place, home. She stretches luxuriously, replete yet wanting — she wants to roll over and drown in him; she wants to lie still and never move again.

But he knows, like he always does, completely in tune with her. "Hello, love," he murmurs. "Sleep well?"

She hums contentedly. "Ridiculously well," she says, shifting to look up at him. "What time is it?"

"About one-thirty," he answers, smiling into her upturned face. "Are you hungry, sweetheart?"

"Starving," she says, with a hint of wickedness and her eyes full of laughter.

He grins back at her and shakes his head, his face soft and relaxed. "I'll make us some lunch, then."

She pushes up on her hands and kisses him. "You look different," she says curiously.

He puts a hand on her cheek, smiling; she leans into it, comforting, seeking comfort.

"I'm happy, Lizzie," he says simply.

Then he pulls her into his arms and holds her close.

* * *

They are in the kitchen, eating fat sandwiches and drinking lemonade when she hears it. It's been so long, nearly a month, since she heard any kind of electronic noise — any noise at all not made by one of the two of them — that it takes a few seconds to register.

"Is that… a phone?"

"Ah, yes," he says, standing up and reaching to the top of the small fridge. "It's Wednesday." He pulls down a satellite phone and clicks it on. "Dembe?"

He pauses briefly, and then begins to speak quietly in a language she recognizes, but can't identify. She lets the soft syllables flow over her as she tries to predict what news Dembe will have for them. What changes the task force has made, their progress; what has happened to Cooper. What the Cabal has been up to, what the media has achieved against them.

Most importantly, she wonders what she and Ray will have to do next.

She knows she should want to get back to it — fight the Cabal, clear her name, help Ray. But she doesn't, not really, she doesn't want to leave this beautiful place, doesn't want to burst this delicate bubble of happiness.

What will it mean for her, for them?

But she looks at his face, still clear and relaxed, and feels reassured. He meets her eyes and smiles; then a moment later, clicks off the phone and sighs.

"Well, sweetheart," he says, "Looks like the holiday's over."

She grabs his hand, worried all over again. "What's happening, Ray?"

"Nothing bad, Lizzie, I promise. Apparently, the Cabal leaders are scrambling — my efforts with the media have met some success. Dembe predicts they'll be busy plugging holes and replacing personnel for weeks yet. And the task force has been fully diverted by the trail Dembe left for them, so we're fine there."

She squeezes his hand and smiles. "Good news. But then, why… why do we have to leave?"

He tilts his head to study her face, puzzled by the sadness in her voice. "Because we've succeeded, so far, we're safe — and I still have a very long list to attend to, with or without the FBI. And just media speculation and controversy won't be enough to destroy the Cabal, either. I still have a lot of work to do." And now his face is set and fierce in a way she had almost forgotten.

She finds herself shaking, physically shaking, without quite knowing why.

"Will… will I go with you? Stay with you?"

"I—" he looks carefully into her face, unsure. "I had assumed that you would. I'm sorry, sweetheart. If you'd rather stay here, or go somewhere else safe, start over and just forget all this mess, I can do it, I can make you safe…"

"No," she cries, jumping up to clutch at him. "No, Ray, I need to be with you, stay with you, to be safe, we…" She can't go on; she's almost panting, so short of breath, her eyes wild and her cheeks flushed.

He draws her into his arms, shushing her gently and rubbing soothing circles into her back.

"Whatever you want, Lizzie love," he murmurs. "Of course I _want_ you with me. I just don't want to force you into anything, especially after everything that's happened."

"I _love_ you," she says, "I won't leave you to fight alone." She buries her face in his neck, clings to him fiercely, but her breathing is already slowing.

"All right, sweetheart. Together, then." He presses a kiss into the side of her head, then rests his cheek against her.

But he wonders, worries, even as he reassures her with words, with his lips and hands and body, worries that maybe she isn't as healed as he had thought. That maybe she is still broken and lost, deep inside. That maybe her mind has more betrayals in store…


	12. Chapter 12

She's going through her things, trying to pack, when he comes into the bedroom. She turns to smile at him.

"It's funny," she says. "Everything I've got now is perfect for this place, for our place here. I'm not sure how it's all going to work somewhere else. Especially a city…"

"Don't worry about it," he says airily. "We can fill in the gaps when we arrive."

"Where are we heading, anyway?" she asks, although she finds that she doesn't really care overmuch.

"Amsterdam, first," he replies. "We'll meet with a contact of mine there, and see what's what."

He moves closer to the bed, lifting up a hard black case she hadn't noticed. She recognizes what it is; doesn't want to, looks away. Her insides start to quiver and knot; her left hand moves unconsciously to rub at her scar.

"Ray?" she asks hesitantly, wanting to be wrong, wanting him to tell her something else, anything else.

"Hmmm?" he murmurs absently, not paying attention, not hearing the tightness in her voice, busy with the lock and latches of the case.

She backs away a couple of steps and bumps into the open dresser drawer. He flips the lid on the case, then turns, smiling. "First pick, sweetheart?"

She shakes her head mutely at him, eyes wide and bright, pupils dilated. He takes a real look at her then — she's pale and shaking a little, breath short, rubbing at her scar when she hasn't touched it in weeks.

 _Ah_ , he thinks, resigned. _Here it is_.

"Lizzie, love?" he says quietly, reaching out to take her hands in his, stilling her. "Talk to me. Don't shut down."

She looks into his eyes, sees only love and understanding, and manages a shaky deep breath. "I just… I hadn't thought about it," she says. "I haven't even thought about touching a… a…"

She can't even say it, has to close her eyes so she can't see the well-stocked case. She's breathing short again, her fingers twitching in his grasp. Overwhelmed with relief that she now has the right to do it, she steps into him and buries her face in his neck, trusting him to loan her his strength until she can find her own. With her trembling body pressed against him, he focuses on staying calm and taking deep, even breaths, so hers might slow to match them. He lets go of her hands to wrap his arms around her tightly, kisses her hair, presses his cheek to the top of her head as if he can transmit his love through osmosis.

"Oh, love," he says softly. "Lizzie, why didn't you tell me that you were still having trouble? I thought since we talked everything through…"

"It's stupid!" she interrupts angrily, lifting her head but still shaking. "I _know_ it's stupid, and I _have_ been better, been _fine_ , I just… I'm looking at them, and the faces come back, I keep seeing the faces and it makes me sick, and I…" The words are flooding out now, like they've been waiting somewhere inside her. "I can't bear the thought of doing it again, of taking a life, and I can see your face too, your face in that alley, and the blood, so much blood, and you're dying right under my hands, and I can't stop it, it's…"

"Lizzie!" he breaks in; he can't listen to her torture herself anymore. He moves his hands to her shoulders and shifts her backward a bit so he can look her in the eye, but she won't, she won't meet his gaze. " _Elizabeth_." Sharp and firm — he hasn't said it before, and it surprises her enough that she looks at him.

"You must stop this, sweetheart — you can't hold all this inside you and carry on, too. If you aren't ready, my love, I understand, it's all right. I will keep you safe either way. You'll stay here as long as you need to, to heal. Dembe will stay with you and help you. He's an excellent sounding board."

Now, he can actually see the panic race across her face.

"No," she cries, high and tight, "No, Ray, we need to be together, to stick together. And you need Dembe with you, he's the only one I trust with you; you can't go alone, it's not safe, it's not right. I can do better, I promise, I won't let you down, I can do it."

Her voice is pleading by the end, and it fractures his heart a little. "Oh, Lizzie, you don't have to prove anything to me. _I_ know how strong you are, how capable. It's _you_ that needs more time, to remember who you are. It's my failure that took your faith, cracked your foundation. But you can't come into this unable to defend yourself. I won't have you risk your life that way. I _cannot_ chance losing you, sweetheart — without you, it's all worth nothing. There's just no point."

She smiles then, and if it's a weaker imitation of her usual sunshine, it's still a smile, and the tremble has stopped.

"You make a very good partner, Ray Reddington."

He laughs. "We already know we work well together," he says, throwing a touch of sauce in to try and ease her; runs a finger down her neck lightly.

He's rewarded by a hint of colour coming out to warm her face. "I can do this," she says. "To keep you safe, _my_ Ray, to make a place for us in the world — I can do this, I can be whole again."

Holding onto him with her left hand, a last little bit of security, she steps up to the bed and looks into the case. Finding the strength inside to keep herself steady, she reaches out to take a familiar Glock 26 into her hand. Once she's holding it, the familiarity of the grip, of the weight at the end of her wrist takes the edge off her fear and trepidation. She can see the faces of the dead in her mind's eye still, but finds that she can put them to the side when she stays focused on the goal of his safety, of keeping them together. A gun is merely an object, a tool to help her protect her own.

She releases him so she can check the gun and ensure that it's in good order; a habit rather than a necessity. Watching her do it, her movements cautious at first, but becoming more sure and steady with each step, the tension in his chest loosens and his mind clears. He can see the confidence creep back into her face, her posture, and hopefully, her mind. He watches as she finishes her inspection and tucks the Glock into her waistband at the small of her back.

"Okay," she says, calm and cool. "Okay. Together, Ray, no matter what. Because… I love you."

He's almost used to hearing it, now, but his heart still gives a little trip when she says it; he hopes that it always will. "Agreed," he answers. "I love you, too. And with you beside me, sweetheart, how can we possibly fail?"

Then he kisses her, with everything in his heart and mind. She falls into it, ignoring the stubborn little quiver at the back of her mind, focusing instead on him, on Ray in her arms, and knows that whatever else, she'll always be capable of doing what is necessary to keep him safe.

* * *

 **A/N:** And that's it, at least for now… Thanks to all for reading and reviewing and sticking with me through this winding little tale. There _could_ be a sequel in here, if the spirit moves…


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